Piotr and Misha were in town to do some shopping. They stopped on the float to get a glass of lemonade. A steamboat had just come in below them. It began to unload the passengers and wares it brought from neighbouring manufacturing towns. It was the boat’s last stopping-point, the river higher up being too shallow. For a while there was much bustle and noise on the float. The little tables were soon occupied by townsfolk and new arrivals, chiefly officials and landlords. They drank wine and talked loudly, though peacefully; they shouted in the provincial manner, and it was easy to hear that many of the conversations touched more or less on political themes.
Two men who sat at one table were in evident agreement, yet spoke in tones of anger. They were the retired District Attorney Kerbakh and the retired Colonel Zherbenev, both large land-proprietors and patriots—members of the Union of Russian People.9 Their speech was loud and vehement, and interpolated with such strange words and phrases as “treachery,” “sedition,” “hang them,” “wipe them out,” “give it to them.”
Nikolai Ilyitch Kerbakh was a small, thin, puny-looking man. The long, drooping moustache on his otherwise clean-shaven face seemed to be there merely to add to its already savage appearance. He rocked in his chair as he lazily stretched himself. His large coat hung about his shoulders like a bag, his highly coloured waistcoat was unbuttoned, his string necktie hung loose, half undone. Altogether he had the look of a man who would not let such small trifles stand in the way of his comfort. Near him, fidgeting restlessly in his chair, was his son, a slobbering, black-toothed youngster of eight, with a flagging, carmine-red underlip.
Andrey Lavrentyevitch Zherbenev, a tall, lank man with an important air, sat motionless and erect as though he were nailed to his chair, and surveyed those round him with a stern glance. His white linen coat, with all its buttons fastened, sat on him as on a bronze idol.
“In everything, I say, the parents are to blame,” continued Kerbakh in the same savage voice as before. “It is necessary to instil the right ideas from very childhood. Now look at my children. …”
And he shouted at his son with unnecessary loudness, though the two sat almost nudging each other:
“Sergey!”
“Yeth?” lisped the slobbering boy.
“Stand up before me and answer.”
The youngster slipped off his chair, stretched himself smartly to his full height in front of his father, and lisped again:
“Yeth, father?”
And he surveyed those sitting at the other tables with a quick, sly look.
“What should be done with the enemies of the Tsar and the Fatherland?” asked Kerbakh.
“They should be destroyed!” answered the boy alertly.
“And afterwards?” continued his father.
The boy quickly repeated the words he had studied:
“And afterwards the foul corpses of the vile enemies of the Fatherland should be thrown on the dunghill.”
Kerbakh and Zherbenev laughed gleefully.
“That describes them—foul carrion, that’s what they are!” said Zherbenev in a hoarse voice.
A newcomer at the next table, a stranger apparently to those present, was giving an order for a bottle of beer. Of middle age and medium height, he was stout, or rather flabby; he had small glittering eyes; and his dress had seen much wear. Kerbakh and Zherbenev gave him an occasional passing glance, not of a very friendly nature. As though they took it for granted that the stranger held antagonistic views, they increased the vehemence of their speeches and spoke more and more furiously of agitators and of Little Mother Russia, and mentioned, by the way, a number of local undesirables, Trirodov among them.
The newcomer scrutinized the two speakers for a long time. It was evident that the name of Trirodov, often repeated in Kerbakh’s remarks, aroused an intense interest, even agitation, in the stranger. His fixed scrutiny of his two neighbours at last attracted their attention and they exchanged annoyed glances.
Then the stranger ventured to join in their conversation.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, “unless I am mistaken, you were speaking of Mr. Trirodov—am I right?”
“My dear sir, you. …” began Kerbakh.
The newcomer immediately jumped to his feet and began to apologize profusely.
“May I impose upon your good nature to forgive my impertinent curiosity. I am Ostrov, the actor—tragedian. You may have heard of me?”
“For the first time,” said Kerbakh surlily.
“I’ve never heard the name,” said Zherbenev.
The stranger smiled pleasantly, as if he had been commended, and continued to speak without showing the slightest embarrassment:
“Well—er—I’ve played in many cities. I’m just passing through here. I’m on my way to attend to some personal business in the Rouban Government. And you just happened to mention a name very familiar to me.”
Kerbakh and Zherbenev exchanged glances. Malignant thoughts about Trirodov again took possession of their minds. Ostrov continued:
“I had no suspicion that Trirodov lived here. He is a very old and intimate acquaintance of mine. I might say we are friends.”
“So-o,” said Zherbenev severely, glancing at Ostrov with disapproval.
Something in Ostrov’s voice and manner aroused their antagonism. His glance was certainly impudent. Indeed his words and his whole demeanour were provokingly arrogant. But it was impossible to be rude with him. His words were proper enough in themselves.
“We haven’t met for some years,” Ostrov went on. “How does he manage to get on?”
“Mr. Trirodov is to all appearances a rich man,” said Kerbakh unwillingly.
“A rich man? That’s agreeable news. In fact, this wealth of Mr. Trirodov’s is of comparatively recent origin. I’m quite sure of that. Of recent origin, I assure you,” repeated Ostrov, giving a sly wink.
“And not of the cleanest?” asked Kerbakh.
He winked at Zherbenev. The latter made a grimace and chuckled. Ostrov looked cautiously at Kerbakh.
“Why do you assume so?” he asked. “No-o, I shouldn’t say that. Quite clean.
